Dear readers, I am thrilled to present to you the final chapter in our series. I wish to express my sincere gratitude to my collaborator friend for their invaluable contribution to this project, and to Kenji Sato for proofreading assistance. I could not have made it this far without them. Please note that this story contains some rough scenes with violence. Sensible readers are advised to avoid it. With that said, I hope you enjoy reading this epic conclusion as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Salvation Army of One
Freedom would be down to her coming for him
The touchdown on African soil jolted Francisco from his favorite dream. He looked around the cabin and saw that his fellow passengers were all at ease, sound asleep. He tried to slip back into his dream, to the image of a beautiful silhouette on all fours, but he was wide awake by then.
The warmth of the cabin tempted him to reach for his phone, hidden in his cassock's inner pocket, to peruse the pictures he kept hidden there. He double-checked to make sure no one would catch him, conscious of how it might look for a young priest like him, to be browsing through erotic content. Francisco had amassed a sizeable collection over several years of voyeurism -- a necessary compromise that kept the Devil in check. His most recent acquisition, a video of a young beauty masturbating while taking a shower, was the key that would lead him to her mother. He was just hours away from reuniting with her after... ten years?
His daydream was shattered as he suddenly snapped back to reality. Despite it being his first time at this remote and rudimentary airport, Francisco was still taken aback by the sight of the landing and taxi lights being turned off. It brought an eerie premonition that felt like a cold shower. At that moment, the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom, warning them that something was amiss.
Within moments, a van came into view, approaching their aircraft at full speed. Francisco could see that there were individuals hanging out of the van's open doors, brandishing rifles. The flight had mostly consisted of cargo, including vaccines, clothing, and sanitation equipment, all of which were intended to be distributed to the local villages through various aid organizations. And one vintage bicycle. Fortunately, there were not many passengers traveling with the cargo, which reduced the risk of a potential hostage situation. In total, there were only five individuals on board, including two teachers, the cargo responsible, Francisco, and the pilot.
As the door to the plane was opened, the individuals with the rifles pointed them directly at Francisco and the other passengers while shouting loudly. Francisco's attempt to wake up from what he thought was a nightmare was in vain, and a wave of dizziness overcame him. He quickly realized that these were dangerous individuals, and they were very real. They continued yelling, but nothing they said made any sense to Francisco.
The pilot was the only one who tried to communicate, persuade, and take action, but Francisco was not convinced it was a good idea. The way in which they were operating, only served to instill terror and fear in everyone present. Francisco couldn't help but notice how young the leader of the group looked. He suspected that the hierarchy of command had been earned through sheer relentlessness, rather than years of service. The young man's thin and wiry physical appearance only confirmed this suspicion, as did his choice to bleach his short hair blond, which was an unusual choice for native Africans.
In an attempt to escape the terrifying situation, Francisco turned to prayer, reciting mantras in his head. As he repeated the words, he managed to detach himself from reality, but unfortunately, a small part of him remained aware of what was happening. This partial consciousness allowed him to follow the progression of events as the cargo was unloaded and transferred. The yelling and shouting continued, as the situation escalated, and Francisco noted that the young teacher was being forced towards the back of the van followed by the sound of her clothes being torn off. Her screams grew increasingly desperate, jolting Francisco back to full awareness. He could see that the young leader was not interested in the young woman, but was instead watching with approval as his two subordinates prepared to indulge in their feast. His weapon hung carelessly at his side, at times not pointing at anyone in particular. The pilot remained vigilant, never taking his eyes off the young man's weapon.
Screams of panic came from over the boxes. The pilot seemed focused on that swinging riffle. It pointed towards him, then towards the boxes.
The boss smiled and encouraged his men.
Towards the pilot.
Screams for help.
Towards the boxes as the pilot moved to jump.
The rifle swung quickly.
While in the air, the pilot barely managed to shut his eyes.
----
Francisco futilely surveyed the plastic strips that bound his hands to the row of chairs in the airport boarding area. He was located somewhere between gate one and two in the local Airport of the District of Peace and Rain. As he looked down at his cassock, he wondered if it would bring him any benefits as a cleric or condemn him further. Seated beside him was the elderly teacher from the plane, not the younger one. The women were both local educators who had just returned from a UN-sponsored trip. Francisco knew that there was little he could do at this point but to remain calm, comply with the orders given to him, and pray. His trust in God was unwavering, even in this uncertain situation. Prayers and words, not for him, but for everyone in the airport, hostage or transgressor. For clarity to those who strive distinguishing between animalistic impulses from love to one's neighbor. For the pilot to survive, for his wounds to heal. For bad memories to vanish from victims. For traumas to not be. She was pretty and should not blame her young beauty. Her sobs were still to be heard over the silence of fear. Sobs and silence that were only interrupted by orders and shouts coming from behind locked doors.
The elderly woman seated beside Francisco was trying to eavesdrop on the argument, and had managed to summarize her understanding of what was happening. A group of locals had turned against the corrupt local authorities and taken control of critical national infrastructure. They fought for the lower class, she explained. The airport was one of their targets, and the hostages were of great importance to them. The young black African with lightened hair seemed to have trouble understanding something, as he was yelling to his superior in disagreement.
The elderly woman beside Francisco shook her head. "I have known him since he dropped out of elementary school. He hasn't matured much since then. Still, I find it difficult to understand what Big Q sees in him."
He got curious about who she meant by Big Q.
Changing the subject, she added, "Do you work in the Church here?"
"That's not why I am here. I came actually looking for somebody."
Their conversation was interrupted as two new individuals arrived at the airport, escorted by a silent muscular black man wearing a white wife-beater. The newcomers were of a slimmer build and whispered to each other in a conspiratorial manner. One of them was clearly a brunette, likely African as well. Her interlocutor was facing away and the only thing it was possible to distinguish was an oversized fisherman hat and a Red Cross vest. Both individuals had a graceful, feminine gait and voice.
As soon as the two newcomers were behind that door, the brunette initiated a heated argument with the one that had a deep voice. After a few minutes of loud, unintelligible words, the elderly teacher next to Francisco gasped. She explained that the brunette was a local field worker representing the Salvation Army. She was likely expecting the shipment of clothes and medicine to be distributed locally. The local humanitarian groups were familiar with Big Q, the local chief with the deep voice, as he had received humanitarian help in the past. Francisco understood that the humanitarian groups condemned the mistake made by the local chief. Their counterparts believed that the foreigners' objective was not to help them, but to change them, to convert them, and force them to lose their traditions. Francisco could not bring himself to care about the details of the situation.
Not much else happened before the brunette Salvation Army leader and a big black figure carrying with the deep-voiced emerged from behind the door and moved towards where Francisco was seated. This Big Q, he was a very large black man wearing military clothes and sitting in a wheelchair, which was a striking sight. Francisco felt a sense of fear as he looked at the immense size of the chief, but soon, that fear converted into respect. It was clear that he was not from the lower class, as he seemed to have been well-fed his entire life. He had goofy white teeth and a charismatic way about him. However, what created the most respect in Francisco was perceiving that there was more to this man than what he could see. He had been in charge of the coup, had several men under his command, and was using what many could call terror without fully losing the respect of those he was taking as hostages. All of this from the comfort of his chair. He was undoubtedly a maestro, a clash to the erratic bleached always-armed character, and it was natural for Francisco's feelings to swing between fear and reverence.
He repeated a phrase and rolled all the way over to Francisco, pointing at him as if to make his case. Francisco was too intimidated by his size to meet his gaze.
The brunette woman turned to Francisco. "Tell him you are not here as a missionary."
"I am not here for any missionary position," Francisco stammered, betrayed by second thoughts. Little conviction despite telling the truth. What was he doing there? He was searching for someone, someone he had been looking for his entire adult life. The person's given name was Ludmila, but he had always remembered her by the name Lara. She had been his first time. Also his last.
Airport and terrorists and the rest of everything faded, as Francisco focused on the second humanitarian worker who appeared from behind and checked on the injured pilot lying on the ground. As she squatted down, her fisherman hat revealed her face, and Francisco recognized her green eyes first, locked onto his. Her angular features and worried smile showed perfect teeth. Though her body expressed feminine details, she exuded strength. Everything fell into place except for her short hair. It had been ten years since they had met under extreme circumstances, and now he had finally found her again, albeit under even more extreme circumstances.
"Lara," he whispered to himself, forcing a sincere smile, but likely managing only a stupid one. She paid no attention to him.
Soon, instructions, negotiations, arguments, and loud voices filled the air. The stretcher with the injured pilot was carried away, but some of the other prisoners remained. Unfortunately, Francisco was not going to be released as he was being blamed for Western attempts to convert locals, despite having little to do with it. However, he embraced the blame in the name of his beliefs.
